Strange Loyalties
by Mechanical Orange
Summary: Sherlock enlists Molly's reluctant help in order to shake off a persistent client who operates a matchmaking service, only to have it backfire magnificently.
1. Back Alley Deals

It starts with a text.

**Come to Baker Street at once – SH**

But she's at work; she can't just _leave_. She tells him so in her reply text and resumes her paperwork. She would actually like to go to Baker Street very much; she would like to know why Sherlock has requested her presence and why it must be at this very moment. But she won't. For a few reasons. First, as explained to him already, she is at work and is not so irresponsible as to leave before her shift ends. Second, as she reminds herself almost daily, she must put up boundaries between herself and Sherlock – true, she no longer has a fiancé, but there remains a strange tension between them. A residual stain of doubt, anger, and fear stemming from his shooting up, getting shot, and shooting someone else. It's uncomfortable and painful every time she's around him, and what makes it even worse is the fact that he doesn't even seem to notice.

So yes, she does have to work. But she also does not have to give in to Sherlock Holmes.

Her shift ends at 8:00 PM. By 8:33 PM she is out the door and her phone buzzes with another text.

**Come to Baker Street – SH **

Molly sighs, but she knows as she boards the Tube where exactly she is going, and it's not to her apartment. The carriage (_car_, she reminds herself with a small grin) isn't very crowded, but she gets off a stop early because she begins feeling a little stifled. Her heart is beating a little faster, her breathing is a little shallower and she clutches her bag just a little too tightly. It's just a slight case of nerves, but her nerves are already so frayed, so worn, that it's all she can do to her hold back straight, keep her chin up and walk those last few blocks to Baker Street as if she were wholly unaffected by her abrupt summons.

It is not unlike his return after his faked suicide, when he had asked her to Baker Street to – in his words – solve crimes. Perhaps this is just more of the same, and if it is, then maybe they would go out for chips afterward (this time she would agree, as she no longer has a fiancé hanging over her head) and they can talk, _really_ talk, about what exactly exists between them. Molly scoffs to herself. She would end up doing most of the talking, about relationships and feelings and-and _trust_, and then Sherlock would roll his eyes, counter her very valid and well-rehearsed concerns with a blasé, "You're my pathologist, Molly," – as if that actually means something to anyone who is not Sherlock Holmes, as if he isn't totally incapable of uttering the word _friend_ – turn up his collar and stroll out the door with that damnable coat billowing behind him.

Infuriating.

She's a block away from 221b when she walks by an alley and an arm reaches out and grabs her. She's pulled into the shadows by a strong hand, from which she desperately tries to tear herself away.

"Molly, stop that," Sherlock whispers in her ear. Molly ceases immediately.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she gasps. "What are you doing?"

"There's been a slight change of plans," he replies, dragging her further down the alley.

"Why?" she asks. "What's happened?"

Sherlock exhales loudly through his nose. He clasps his hands behind his back and begins pacing back and forth, and then in mid-stride he changes direction and circles around Molly instead. "If you had come when I asked I needn't have resorted to this chicanery."

"Chicanery? Sherlock, have you been watching Downton Abbey again?" she asks somewhat accusingly. And _he_ has the nerve to make fun of _her_.

He scoffs. "That is hardly relevant." He continues his furious pacing and Molly notices a strange nervous energy emanating in his wake. "As I was saying before, if you had come when I asked then we could've avoided this situation entirely."

"What situation?"

"I have a _client_," he sneers the word client as if it is a swear word, "who is adamant about procuring my services, even though I have refused thrice."

"Oh, well I'm sure they'll take the hint soon," Molly replies evenly.

"She has not thus far, and as such I have had to resort to a last measure."

"Which is?"

"You, of course," Sherlock replies.

Oh. _Of course_. Molly "Last Measure" Hooper. Isn't that what all her friends call her?

"I see," Molly mutters, trying to keep her voice steady.

Sherlock continues on obliviously. "This woman, Madame Girard, runs a matchmaking service for the _elite_, as she put it. She is convinced that someone has been sabotaging her business and knocking off eligible bachelors. It's hardly a six, but she keeps offering more money and won't take no for an answer. However, I have pinpointed her weakness – love, as is advertised by her company – and determined the most effective way to get her to leave is by exploiting it. You will pose as my girlfriend, accompany me back to the flat, tell Madame Girard that under no circumstances will you allow your beloved to go undercover at a place where other women will be pawing at him and where his life may very well be in danger. Madame Girard will acquiesce and I will be free for other pursuits."

Molly gapes at him. Her mind is spinning; she has no idea where to start. First, Sherlock has failed to intimidate and insult a client enough to make them leave of their own volition. Second, Sherlock is either extremely vain or extremely ignorant (Molly suspects an odd mixture of both) to think that women would automatically want to "paw at him." And third, Sherlock actually wants Molly to pretend to be his girlfriend just so she can tell someone off. He's _got_ to be joking.

"You've got to be joking," she says.

"I don't joke, Molly," he replies.

"I know," she sighs.

Sherlock grabs her wrist and drags her back toward the street. "Come along, Molly. I left Madame Girard in the company of Mrs. Hudson and I fear what those two have got up to in my absence."

When she and Sherlock enter his flat, he moves his hand from her wrist to her palm, wrapping his long fingers around it. He burst into his sitting room with a breathless gusto, presenting their clasped hands to his guests as if it were the bloody crown jewels.

"Madame Girard, this is my girlfriend Molly Hooper," he crows, before dropping her hand like a hot potato. _So much for the crown jewels_, Molly silently laments.

Madame Girard and Mrs. Hudson are both taken by surprised at Sherlock's sudden entrance, but the former recovers smoothly.

"Oh, Ms. Hooper, what a pleasure it is to meet you," she says. She extends a well-manicured hand decorated with several precious stones. Molly takes it and attempts her winningest smile. Madame Girard is a middle-aged woman with silver hair, perfectly coifed, and dressed in Chanel suit, perfectly tailored. Everything about her is exact, precise and completely put-together. Molly tries not to fidget in her floral blouse and cherry cardigan.

"Nice to meet you too," Molly replies.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says. "Where are the biscuits? You were gone for half an hour."

"They were out," Sherlock replies tersely.

"Of all of them?" Mrs. Hudson asks in disbelief. "And when were you going to tell me about – "

"I was just explaining to Molly about your case, Madame Girard," Sherlock says loudly over Mrs. Hudson's protests. "And she expressed some concern about your request. Isn't that right, Molly?"

"Oh, um, yes, well I don't think it's such a good idea for Sherlock to go undercover. I mean, it sounds dangerous, if someone is killing off bachelors, and – "

"And you dislike the idea of your boyfriend being ogled by a group of attractive, successful, and powerful women?" Madame Girard says. Before Molly can formulate a response, Madame Girard continues. "Perfectly understandable. Mr. Holmes is quite a catch. However, I think I can come up with a solution that will appease you, and allow Mr. Holmes to discover the saboteur of my business."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock asks through his teeth.

"You both will go undercover, of course. That way Ms. Hooper can keep an eye on you, Mr. Holmes, while you keep an eye out for the saboteur. Everyone is satisfied. Both of you come by my office tomorrow at four P.M. on the dot. Good day." And with that, Madame Girard sweeps out of 221b Baker Street without so much as a backward glance.

Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson stand in silence for a moment until the latter says, "Sherlock, you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend!"

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" he replies tersely, collapsing into his chair. "I need to think."

Mrs. Hudson throws her hands up in the air. "You'll have a better time talking to him, I should think." She winks at Molly and then retreats back downstairs.

It's a good few minutes after Mrs. Hudson leaves that Molly recovers from her shock and realizes what, precisely, she's expected to do.

"Um, Sherlock?" she says. He doesn't respond and she assumes he is in his mind palace. "I'm sorry that your, er, plan didn't work. You can just tell Madame Girard it was all a big misunderstanding, and-and I'll see you later. At Bart's or something." She turns to leave.

"Molly."

She pauses.

"I will see you tomorrow at Madame Girard's office. Four o'clock sharp," he says.

Molly turns back to look at him, but he's already retreated to his mind palace, fingers steepled underneath his chin, so she mutters her soft assent and leaves.

* * *

**A/N: **This is my first foray into Sherlolly, so constructive criticism is especially welcome. Thanks for reading!


	2. Parlor Room Negotiations

**A/N: Thanks for all your lovely reviews! Here's the next chapter, enjoy!**

* * *

What exactly does one wear when going undercover at an elite matchmaking agency? Molly rifles through her closet, unable to come to a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Molly is trying to shroud herself under several layers of deceit. Artifice built upon flimsy artifice. Well, if that doesn't describe Sherlock Holmes to a tee then she doesn't know what does.

She pulls out a simple blue dress – cap sleeves and an A-line skirt. A good, solid dress one might wear to church or on a first date. Though, she hasn't worn it to either. Actually, she can't remember when she last wore it, but today's a day for firsts, it seems. First time to go undercover (even it's an accident), first time to try a matchmaking service (even if it's a sham), first time one of Sherlock's clients doesn't run out of his flat either cowed or furious (even if said client has embroiled her in this aforementioned sham).

So Molly pulls on the blue dress, a nice pair of flats, swipes on a dash of pink lip gloss and puts a silver headband in her hair before heading out to meet Sherlock at Madame Girard's office. It's located at a beautiful house in Chelsea with a white brick front and a glossy red door with the number fourteen on it in gilded gold numbers. Molly feels the same sense of unease she experienced when meeting Madame Girard for the first time. The spotless bricks and immaculate front garden all scream, _not for you, Molly; this place isn't for you._ It's then that she spots Sherlock strutting down the sidewalk, looking like he belongs in such a neighborhood, wearing his tailored suit and Belstaff coat.

"Oh good," he says as he approaches. "You're here." He rings the doorbell with a confidence that only Sherlock can possess – the confidence one gains when one is always right and enjoys telling it to complete strangers' faces when they answer the door.

Suddenly, Molly thinks this is a very, very bad idea.

"Sherlock," she says. "Really, you don't have to – I mean, you don't really need me for this. I'm sure you can solve this case on your own."

Sherlock looks at her, nonplussed. "Nonsense, Molly," he tells her. "You present a useful opportunity to interrogate all the eligible _bachelors._"

"While you interrogate all the eligible _bachelorettes_?" she asks.

"Something like that."

"You will be nice to them, won't you, Sherlock?"

He smirks.

Unfortunately the front door opens before she can properly chastise him.

A young woman sporting shiny black hair and a red dress beckons them inside. The foyer is all white marble and gilded fixtures, with a thick Persian rug beneath their feet, and as they wind their way deeper into the house the decorations become more ornate. Sherlock isn't affected at all by the grandeur, but, Molly supposes, once you've been to Buckingham Palace, you really _have_ seen it all.

She and Sherlock are seated in the parlor and the young woman serves them tea. "Madame Girard will be with you in a moment," she says, and takes her leave.

"This place is amazing," Molly whispers, picking at the hem of her dress nervously.

Sherlock sighs. "You look fine, Molly." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "And in any case it's best if you remain inconspicuous. Much easier to talk to suspects that way."

"Yes, of course," Molly replies softly. She _thinks_ Sherlock is giving her some sort of compliment, but it certainly doesn't feel that way.

"Unfortunately my service does not trade in inconspicuous," Madame Girard says upon entering the parlor. "Every client must catch the eye, engage the imagination," she glances at Sherlock, "stutter the heart." She primly pours herself a cup of tea and takes a seat across from them. "Mr. Holmes, Ms. Hooper, how lovely to see you both again."

"It's Dr. Hooper, actually," Sherlock replies sourly.

"You're a doctor, dear?" Madame Girard says. "Of what, may I ask?"

"I'm a pathologist," Molly tells her shyly. "I work with corpses, you know, autopsies, and things."

"Oh dear," Madame Girard replies. "Well, you and Mr. Holmes are certainly a perfect pair." She smiles. "However, I worry that might be a bit off-putting to my other clients. Let's just smudge the truth a little and call you a pediatrician."

"A pediatrician?" Molly repeats. "I don't know – "

"Yes, I think that's much more palatable," Madame Gerard continues.

Molly hears the sharp clink of porcelain hitting porcelain and looks over at Sherlock, who returns his cup and saucer to the table.

"I thought you were in business of procuring love, Madame Girard, not telling lies," he says. "Though, I suppose they are quite the same thing."

"Mr. Holmes, no need to get offended," Madame Girard replies. "This is all just for show, is it not? I know my clients, and most men do get a bit intimidated by a woman who works with the dead." She turns to Molly. "I'm sure before Mr. Holmes came along, there were not many who liked hearing about your job, were there?"

"No, not really," Molly says. And indeed, she remembers all the times a first date had gone south after she revealed her profession. Until Moriarity it had just been a string of first dates and no returned calls, Moriarty, however, had been worse than fifty consecutive first dates (a feat which Molly would not have thought possible), and then finally she met Tom. Lovely Tom with his lovely family and lovely dog and lovely proposal, and lovely understanding of her reasons for breaking off the engagement (which just made it all the worse).

Maybe being a pediatrician for a day wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Come, dear." Madame Girard stands and calls for her assistant. "Let's get you freshened up." Molly is whisked away by the young woman in red, though she manages one last look at Sherlock still seated on the sofa. He's staring at her hard, just for a moment, as though she's a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit, and then the moment's gone; he looks back at Madame Girard, reaching for his tea and taking a sip.

* * *

Molly's ushered into a tastefully decorated suite.

"Dr. Hooper," the young woman says, "My name is Lara, and I'll be helping prepare you for the cocktail hour tonight." She opens a wardrobe, revealing a wide array of dresses. "Part of our service is to ensure each candidate is presented as his or her very best." Lara pulls a dark purple dress out of the wardrobe and presents it to Molly. "Will you please try this on, Dr. Hooper?"

"Okay," Molly replies, taking the dress behind the changing screen. She shucks off her blue dress, and slides on the new one. It's not a particularly revealing dress, but it is form fitting and somewhat shorter than her previous one. "It's very nice," she says, stepping out from behind the screen. "Madame Girard certainly knows what she's doing."

Lara smiles indulgently. "She has been doing this for quite some time."

"How long have you worked for her?" Molly asks.

"A little over a year," Lara replies, handing Molly a pair of black pumps.

"And you like it?" Molly says as she slips on the shoes. "Matchmaking?"

"Some people might find it old-fashioned," Lara says, shooting Molly a knowing look. "But there's an art to it. And Madame Girard is the best." She ushers Molly to sit at the vanity and removes the silver headband from Molly's hair. With a few twists Lara replaces Molly's headband with a smooth and polished chignon.

"Have you ever done this before?" Molly asks. "I mean, as a client?"

"Yes," she replies. "That was how I first met Madame Girard." Lara applies mascara, blush and a rose-colored lipstick, and it's just enough to enhance Molly's features without overwhelming them.

"But you're not – sorry, it's none of my business."

"It's all right, Dr. Hooper," Lara says. "I only attended one of Madame Girard's events at the urging of my parents. Madame Girard recognized my displeasure right away, so she offered me a job instead."

"That was really nice of her," Molly replies.

"Madame Girard is a very intuitive woman. Now, I believe it's time for cocktail hour." Lara opens the door to the suite. "Follow me please."

* * *

Lara leads Molly upstairs and into a lounge full of other men and women drinking and mingling. "Good luck," Lara whispers and disappears from Molly's side.

Molly enters the room hesitantly, trying not to come across as too self-conscious or conspicuous or out-of-place in any way. She grabs a nearby glass of champagne and takes a generous sip while glancing around the room.

She spots Sherlock at once, champagne glass in his hand, talking to a tall dark-haired woman. _Like Janine_, Molly thinks. Perhaps that's his type. Of course, she only sees one man who fits _her_ type, but sociopaths don't usually make themselves readily known. Unless they're Sherlock.

"Hello." Molly is greeted by the sight of a tall blonde man, handsome and smiling. "I haven't seen you before, is this your first time?"

"Yes, actually," Molly replies.

"My name's David," he tells her, holding out his hand.

She takes it. "I'm Molly."

"It's nice to meet you, Molly. The first time can be a little nerve-wracking, but we're all pretty nice here."

"How long have you been coming to Madame Girard?" Molly asks.

"About a month now," he replies. "I've been on a few dates, but no real luck yet." He grimaces, and glances over to the corner in which Sherlock is standing. "And it doesn't look I'll be having any luck any time soon."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes, that PI from all the papers," he says. "Five minutes and he's already got half the women in here all over him."

Molly grabs another glimpse at Sherlock, and sure enough the women around him have multiplied by quite a bit from five minutes ago. Maybe Sherlock is right about women pawing at him, but he doesn't seem to hate it.

"You know, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to go have a drink with him," David smirks. "I have half a mind to, myself."

Molly chuckles. "No thanks, I'm not really one for private detectives." She takes another sip of her champagne. "What do you do?"

"Corporate attorney. And you?"

"Pediatrician."

David is very nice, and so are Jason, Todd, Zubayr, and Henry. She only speaks to a couple of the women, Regina and Penelope, who have been long time clients of Madame Girard's.

"We're old friends," Regina tells her.

"Oh yes," Penelope adds. "We go way back. We started an interior design company together several years ago. It's going quite well."

Regina leans in conspiratorially. "We've designed flats for Girls Aloud."

"That's amazing," Molly says. "I'm just a pediatrician."

"Nonsense, darling," Penelope says. "That's wonderful. And to tell you the truth, most men find that attractive in a woman, you know."

"Being a pediatrician?" Molly asks.

"Well, working with children," she replies. "Most men here are looking to start families."

"Met anyone you like?" Regina asks.

"Well, David seems nice," Molly says. "But I don't know."

"What about Sherlock Holmes?" Penelope chimes in.

"Didn't really get a chance to talk to him," Molly tells her.

"I thought he was a little stand-offish," Regina says.

"Oh, I don't know," Penelope replies. "He's sort of charming, and mysterious." She winks at Molly. "I like a little mystery in a man."

The tinkling of a bell rings out over the din of the lounge and Madame Girard enters. "The cocktail meet is over," she announces. "I hope you all had a lovely evening." Everyone puts their glasses down and says their farewells.

"Well, it was nice meeting you," Penelope says to Molly. "See you next time."

"Nice meeting you too," Molly replies, and files out with the rest of the crowd. She tries to catch Sherlock's eye, but he's through the door before she even nears it.

She passes Madame Girard who smiles at her. "Have a good evening, Dr. Hooper."

Molly manages a feeble smile in return, and hurries out of the lounge in an effort to catch up to Sherlock. Just as she manages to get outside the glossy red front door, she sees Sherlock enter a cab and drive off without so much as a glance her way.

Molly hails her own cab half-heartedly and tries not to think too much about Sherlock's dismissive behavior. She supposes it is for the best, though, as they are not supposed to know each other, but surely some sort of subtle acknowledgment wouldn't have hurt. She sighs, picking at the hem of her dress.

She's nearly home when she sits bolt upright in the cab, eyes opened wide in shock.

She's still wearing Madame Girard's borrowed clothes.

_Oops._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think with a review!**


	3. Dining Room Discussions

"So let me get this straight," Mary says, taking a sip of her latte. "Sherlock asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend, just so you can pretend _not_ to be his girlfriend in order to go undercover with him at a dating service."

"Sort of," Molly replies. "It's a little more complicated than that though."

"Everything is with that man," Mary sighs. "So any leads yet? And more importantly, any cute guys?"

Molly shrugs. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to be looking for. No one seemed homicidal to me."

"Oh, let Sherlock handle all that. You should try and get yourself a date out of this. I've heard about Madame Girard; she only deals with high society clients."

"Well, there was this one guy who was nice," Molly blushes.

"What's his name, then?" Mary asks.

"David," Molly tells her. "He's a corporate attorney."

"That sounds promising."

"I don't know, I'm supposed to be dating Sherlock."

"Yeah, but not really," Mary says.

"No, not really," Molly replies quietly.

"Well, I best be off," Mary tells her. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

Molly smiles and nods.

She returns to the lab, ready for a long afternoon of autopsies and paperwork. Upon entering, however, she is greeted with an all too familiar figure in a long, dark coat.

"Sherlock!" she says in surprise. "I didn't expect to see you; any breaks in the case?"

He strides closer and thrusts an envelope toward her. "This came for you," he says stiffly. "It's from Madame Girard."

Molly takes it and opens it slowly. The paper is thick and rich, the words handwritten in a beautiful calligraphy.

"Oh, it says I've been asked on a date!" she smiles.

"Have you?" Sherlock asks. "By whom?"

"David," she replies, trying to tamp down her grin. "I only talked to him a little, but he was very nice."

"He could be our murderer," he says.

"You think so?" Molly asks, a little taken aback. She hadn't sensed any murderous attentions when she had met him, but then again, she isn't the consulting detective.

"Probably not," Sherlock replies, sounding slightly disappointed.

"So I should go?"

"If you wish."

"Okay," she says. "Then I'll go."

Sherlock gives her a taut nod.

"What about you?" Molly asks. "Did you get any dates?"

Sherlock shoves his hand in his coat and tosses four envelopes on the table.

"Oh," Molly replies softly. "Are you going on all of them?"

"The chances of one of them being our killer are good. I will get more information out of them in a one-on-one situation."

Molly sorts through Sherlock's invitations. _Nina, Chitra, Lilian, and – _"Penelope! I met her," she tells him. "She talked to me for a bit. She said she and her friend Regina designed flats for Girls Aloud."

"Who?" Sherlock asks. "No, nevermind. Irrelevant." He waves his inquiry aside with an impatient hand. "Go on your date," his lip curls unpleasantly, "and I will go on mine. Hopefully will we be able to end this ridiculous farce soon." He gathers his coat around him and stalks to the door. "And Madame Girard said to keep the dress," he calls after him. "Whatever that means," he mumbles, and then he's gone.

* * *

The next evening she is faced with a familiar dilemma. _What to wear?_ Her blue dress had been returned to her the day before, so she decides to put that on, now that there's no Madame Girard to tell her differently. She does, however, concede to wearing the pumps she had been gifted. A compromise, of sorts. She feels pretty and confident, something she hasn't felt in quite some time. Not since – well, it doesn't matter. She catches a cab and heads to the restaurant.

David is already seated; as she approaches he stands and pulls out her chair for her. "Nice to see you again, Molly," he says. "Thanks for meeting me here."

"Of course," Molly smiles as she takes her seat. "I liked talking to you the other night."

"Me too." He smiles in return and pours her a glass of wine.

They share a starter and exchange information about their lives (Molly glosses over the "pediatrician" part and hopes he doesn't notice). David is an attorney specializing in corporate law, but regrets he can't tell her more due to numerous non-disclosure agreements. He has a younger brother and sister and he's halfway through a story about the antics of his siblings when Molly sees something that makes her stomach flip.

Sherlock.

He's sitting in the corner; she almost doesn't recognize him at first. He's wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit with a mustard yellow tie. He's combed his hair back and tamped down most of their curl except for the ends, where they brush against the back of his neck. He looks quite different, but there's no mistaking his ice blue eyes, his sharp cheekbones, and his well-defined Cupid 's bow. He takes a slow sip of his wine and glances at her, meeting her eyes. His mouth almost, not quite, quirks upward into a smirk.

"Molly?" David asks. "Molly, are you alright?"

"Hmm?" Molly returns her focus to the man actually sitting at her table. "Oh, yes. If you'll just excuse me for a moment."

Molly stands and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Sherlock is waiting for her in the narrow hallway.

"What are you doing here?" she whispers angrily.

"My job," he replies coolly.

"Your job? I thought you said David wasn't the killer?"

"I said he _probably_ wasn't," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "I have to be sure, don't I?"

"Sherlock, I actually sort of like him, so tell me, am I or am I not on a date with a murderer?" she asks fiercely, arms crossed.

"Don't worry, Molly, you're not," Sherlock replies. "And in any case it's not as if you've never been on a date with a murderer before."

Molly's shocked into silence for a moment, appalled that he would bring _that_ up of all things. "You asked me to help you, Sherlock," she says quietly, trying to hide her trembling voice. "And I'm glad to. But if you don't want my help, that's fine. I'm going back to my date, and you should just – you should just go home!"

She turns on her heel and leaves him standing there before he can say another awful word.

"Sorry about that," Molly says as David pulls out her chair for her.

"No worries," he smiles. "Our food's just arrived."

They chat amicably throughout the rest of the meal, and even split a delicious bread pudding for dessert. Sherlock disappears from his corner table and internally Molly breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"I've really enjoyed spending time with you," David tells her as they walk outside. "So I feel like I should be honest."

_Oh, this can't be good._ What if he is actually the murderer? But why would he tell her? No, that's stupid; he wouldn't tell her. _Duh, Molly._ And anyway Sherlock is never wrong. Well, sometimes he's wrong. But not often. Not about things like this.

_He was wrong about Jim_, a dark voice in her head reminds her.

_Shut up!_

"I'm currently seeing other people," David continues. "From the agency. Some other women asked me out, and I accepted."

"Oh, of course," Molly says. "That's what dating's for, isn't it? Meeting new people?" She gives him a tentative smile.

"Exactly," David replies. "But I did mean what I said, about having a good time." He clasps her hand in his and brings it to his lips. "And I hope I can see you again?"

"Yes, I would like that," she smiles.

He kisses the back of her hand, and she can feel her cheeks blush.

"Good night, Molly."

"Good night, David."

He tucks her into a taxi and she waves a shy goodbye to him as it speeds off into the night.

* * *

The next day she feels better than she has in quite a long time. There's a slight spring in her step, and she hums a little tune as she preps a body for the post-mortem.

"Good morning, Molly."

She jumps in surprise, glancing around to see Sherlock standing behind her, holding a coffee.

"I brought you a coffee," he says. "It's how you like it."

She accepts it and takes a sip. She shouldn't be surprised that it's exactly how she makes hers, but she is. She can't recall ever telling him that information, and even if she had she thinks he would have deleted it at some point.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she says.

"You're welcome."

They stand in silence for a moment – Sherlock, staring at her and Molly waiting for some sort of apology to pass through his lips. Molly, more and more of late, is finding her patience is wearing thin.

"I'm very busy today, Sherlock. So if that's all – "

"I'm sorry, Molly." His words are quiet and deliberate. "I shouldn't have said that… thing about you and your dating history. Forgive me."

Molly knows that Sherlock finds sincerity hard to come by; she knows that his compliments and flattery and heartfelt appeals are usually false and manipulative. She has known Sherlock for years, but it didn't take her more than a few months to figure him out. She has long suspected that his manipulations were a result of him believing no one could ever do something for him simply because they _like_ him. His sincerity is rarely given, simply because he believes it would be thrown back in his face.

So she gently touches his arm and says, "I forgive you."

"Excellent," he replies. He opens his mouth to continue on in what would no doubt be a tour-de-force of disdain and mockery about David, dating and Madame Girard's agency, but she cuts him off.

"But don't ever bring it up again, Sherlock. I mean it."

"I won't."

"Good."

"Good," he agrees. Molly can tell that he's just itching to launch into his spiel about the latest developments of the case, so gives him a little smile and takes another sip of coffee.

"As you are aware," he begins, "I have been invited on several dates." Molly nods. "I will need to go on all of them in order to rule out any possible suspects. It is possible that one of these women is our murderer and has determined that I am a threat. It may be her intention to ask me on a date in order to get me alone and let my guard down so that she may more easily dispose of me."

"Sherlock – "

"There is a very low chance that she will succeed. However, in order to reduce that risk even further I would like you to attend these dates as well."

"What?"

"You will be in disguise, of course, and observe my date for any suspicious behavior."

"Like you were doing last night?" Molly asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, almost warily. "In fact I did discover something interesting about _David_," he tells her. "He was communicating with other women. It would probably be best to break it off him immediately, as he has shown philandering tendencies."

"Thank you for telling me, Sherlock, but I already know."

"You know?"

"Yes, he told me," Molly says.

"He told you?" Sherlock's eyes widen quite comically, and Molly fights hard not to laugh. "And you're… fine with this arrangement?"

"We've only been on one date, Sherlock. He told me he'd been asked out by some other women and accepted."

"So you can see other people too?"

"Yes, I suppose I could."

"But you're… not," Sherlock says. "Seeing other people, that is."

"Not at the moment," Molly replies.

"Good," he says. "That means you're free tonight. I'm going on a date and I need you to be there." He makes for the door in swift, long steps. "Amore, 8 o'clock. And wear something that makes you look like not-yourself." He pushes the doors open with a bang and strides away, his coat fluttering behind him as the doors close with a sharp, metal clang.

Molly sighs and turns her attention to the poor, ignored corpse on the slab.

"That's quite enough excitement for today, isn't it, Mr. Crabtree?"

Mr. Crabtree has no reply.


End file.
